


No Hope. No Harm.

by AlexisJane



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dry Humping, M/M, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 10:19:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexisJane/pseuds/AlexisJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for somersault_j as she's a horrible, horrible bully! Started out as a "Oops! I slipped and fell in your butt" thing but has ended up...well, a bit schmoopy actually *gags*. Sorry.<br/>Love and hugs to skeletncloset for the read through in the early stages. Any mistakes are mine, please point them out.<br/>Title from The Smiths "Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me" because, y'know, literalism. Also, dreamy.</p><p>Disclaimer - These are my words but all my base are belong to Kripke, Sera, Ben or whoever so don't sue me. It's just for fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Hope. No Harm.

It's the same dream. Not a bad dream. Not the recurring nightmare of smoke and flame and yellow eyes and blood and helplessness, feeding and fed by his guilt.

No. This is the one he looks forward to. _The_ dream. The one that makes all that stuff, real or imagined fade away. It's no more normal or balanced or right than the rest of his life, awake or asleep but this is the bit he looks forward to. Clings desperately to. Fruitlessly grasps at the misty wisps of memory when he wakes, praying that it won't dissipate too soon because he needs it. Needs the feeling to linger. And then can't wait to be back there even though the waking memory of it is vague and clouded because when he is there, it's so damn real, he can hardly stand it.

There was a time when Dean would smile and sigh and casually lean over and rest his forearm on the top of Sammy's head, his shoulder only slightly hitched up and rest there until Sam pushed him away -- _it's not my fault you're a shorty!_ \-- It was funny because it annoyed Sam but made him smile too. But then he got too tall for it to be easy, to be comfortable and it wasn't funny anymore.

Sparring started to become a challenge. Sam was still scrawny and still fought dirty but those extra few inches started to make a difference. Somehow it made Dean relax, the weight on his shoulders lessening with every quarter inch. Sam was growing up. Sammy was still here. He still needed looking out for but not so much as when he had been small and vulnerable. It was easier to separate the idea of him from the tiny bundle that had been thrust into his arms. Now when he put his arm around him he felt less like a victim, more like a brother.

But the dream isn't about either of those things. Not exactly. Dean can't be sure when it started but he's pretty sure it was the day Sam spoke and he had to look up. There may have been other dreams before, other feelings before but this eclipsed them all.

He's waiting, somewhere that's nowhere. Everything around him fluid, inconsequential. Outside a school. Outside a mall. Outside a gas station. Leaning back against the Impala, the sun warm on his face, heating the leather of his jacket so it softens and releases that soft scent of everything they've been through. And he doesn't know where he's been or where he's going. He's just waiting. Waiting for Sam. And he'll wait as long as he needs to.

And then Sam's there in the distance, walking towards him. Not slow, just relaxed. Definite. Shoulders slightly hunched, gripping the strap of his school bag with one hand, head down, his too-big jacket flapping open with each step as he gets closer.

Walking towards him.  
Swinging the arm that holds the book he went to collect from the library, the fingers of the other hand tugging at the damp collar of his tshirt, his skin glistening in the heat as he gets closer.

Walking towards him.  
Awkwardly pushing his duffel back on his shoulder with the hand holding the shovel, his bangs swinging with the rhythm of his gait, Dean moving with it too as Sam gets closer.

Walking towards him.  
The last few steps, slow and deliberate, pressing right into his body, the expanse of Sam's naked chest wrapping around him, Dean tipping his head back to look up and up as Sam towers above him, crowds into him, smothering him in safety and scent and heat. He buries his face in Sam's neck, feels the softness of his hair on his cheek, the heat of bare flesh on his lips, feels enveloped by him, by the idea of him, by a Sam that blots out the heavens and blinkers him to everything but the sheer size of him.  
And he's still walking towards him. And Dean is still moving with him.  
Rocking against him, inside him.  
He feels complete.

____________________________

 

Sam was so close to sleeping. So damn close. But here we go again.

They've shared enough beds for Sam to be aware of Dean's nightly habits. His weird noises, half mumbled confessions, drooling, sweating and outright, shit-yourself sudden screaming nightmares.

But this.

First, surely he is too old for this. Second, this is actually, pretty new. It's horrifying that he should know his brother well enough to know that but it is. At least he thinks it is.

The first couple of times Sam had been aware of Dean moving around, face down, arms under the pillow, it was irritating but that was about it.

Then there was the night he swore he heard his name uttered in amongst the harsh breaths. It couldn't possibly have been that but somehow it tuned his brain into the pattern and now, as soon as Dean started panting and grinding, Sam's brain decided he should be wide awake despite Sam himself longing desperately for unconsciousness, pleading with himself to find it before he heard anything else that he couldn't un-hear.

His feet are hanging off the end of the bed as usual but it's wide enough that he can get enough distance that it shouldn't impact on him at all.

They were both so exhausted and aching that by the time they reached the motel, they'd happily taken the only room available and neither one even contemplated sleeping on the floor. Dean had just about managed a shower and was unconscious before Sam had even got his toothbrush out of his duffel. The delay gave Dean enough time to slip into REM sleep just as Sam was dropping off. Just as that clouded, dull feeling started to sweep over Sam, over his shoulder Dean's breathing changed.

Deep, shuddering intake. Sharp open mouthed exhale.

It only took two breaths to send a jolt of adrenaline through Sam and flick his dwindling senses back up to ten. So now he lies there, hearing too acute, skin too sensitive, the darkness accentuating every noise and smell and movement happening next to him.

Dean's panting hasn't changed. Sam rolls onto his back. He folds his hands on his chest and keeps his eye's closed, hoping the metronome that is Dean will somehow lull him into sleep but that couple of inches that his shoulder has moved closer to his brother means that just a whisper of that out-breath reaches his skin. Over and over. The puffs of warm air shouldn't feel good but they do and he's tired enough to think it doesn't matter that he likes it. Sam cusses silently. But he doesn't move

But then Dean starts to. Sam feels the mattress start to rock, very slightly, as Dean presses his hips into it, in time with his breathing. A heat starts to grow deep in his belly. It feels good and horrifying at the same time. It shouldn't be happening. He takes a deep breath and knows he has to wake his brother, no matter how mad he'll be, as this is getting a little too weird. And he absolutely would have but Dean's knee slides up the sheet presses lightly onto Sam's thigh. Sam's heart pounds hard and his eyes flick open in the darkness feeling as if all the blood in his body is rushing to his groin.

All he can think is -- nonono -- but his dick has other ideas, contentedly chubbing up on his hip as Dean, now with his legs spread for better purchase, cants his hips harder into the mattress next to him, making the already strained bed frame creak quietly. Sam's hand flies up to cover his mouth, to stifle the groan that takes him by surprise as Dean's rocking drags the sheet repetitively over Sam's cock, the gossamer touch making him gasp.

Dean starts to mumble in his out breath. Sam is trying so hard to get a hold of himself that he doesn't hear it at first, doesn't register that the sounds are words, doesn't hear his name whispered desperately under Dean's gasps. But when he does, wide eyed, he turns his head, pressing the pillow down so he can see the shape of Dean's mouth, of his lips saying "Sammy, oh Sammy" over and over, and he realises he's never been so hard in his life.

When the hand that isn't pressed into Sam's mouth snakes down to squeeze his swollen cock, his forearm accidentally grazes Dean's thigh. Sam freezes, imagining the touch would wake Dean but all that happens is Dean groans louder and presses harder into the bed beneath him.  
It's not relief. He should feel relieved. Dean is still asleep. The momentum of his movement uninterrupted. But it's not relief. Sam feels a flutter of excitement in his chest. It's all wrong.

Something in Sam's mind makes him move, ignoring the mantra -- _this is a bad idea, a bad, bad idea, please don't wake up, please don't wake up_ \-- repeating in desperation in his head as he slowly inches his hand from his now, painfully hard dick and slides it oh so slowly over, covering the knee that is pressed against his leg.

Dean moans but doesn't seem to get any closer to consciousness. Sam swallows. He could stop. He should stop. He would have but Dean mutters "Sammy, please" and without thinking, his hand starts to gently slide along Dean's thigh, fingertips running against the soft inner flesh, palm cupping the straining hamstrings, on and slowly up to the place where the mound of his ass begins.

As his hand curves up, smoothing the curve of Dean's ass cheek, feeling the change from soft and downy to plain hairy, letting his middle finger fall into the space between his cheeks, running it back and forth as Dean moves back and forth, feeling his muscles contract and relax under his hand, Dean's gasps turning to grunts, Sam convinces himself that he's dreaming. He must be dreaming. Because awake, he would never do this. Awake he would never want do this. And right now, this feels so fucking good that he must be dreaming.

And if he's dreaming…as carefully as he can, trying not to make too sudden a move, trying not to disturb Dean and his grunting, rocking delirium, Sam turns onto his side to face him. He takes the hand from his mouth and reaches over, lifting the loose sheet and pulls it quietly down, hoping that exposing Dean's naked glistening back, his pale ass rocking hard against the bed then pushing up to find Sam's hand, to the air doesn't wake him. Sam opens his mouth, releasing out a moan at the sight before he lets it fill with spit and dips two fingers in scooping up as much wetness as he can, his tongue plastering it around and between them.

As he reaches his dripping fingers over, he gently spreads the fingers of his other hand, pushing Dean's cheeks apart. Dean starts gasping in short sharp breaths and pushes his ass up to meet Sam's fingers, groaning hard as they find his hole and run slick around it, circling gently, smoothly. Sam is breathing hard, not quite able to believe what he's doing, feeling his pulse hammering under his skin, his heavy cock twitching in the space between them, desperate to be touched.

He lets his wet fingers press hard, bolder, the tips dipping fraction by fraction deeper in to the loosing ring of muscle but pulls the other away, tucking his elbow beneath him, intending to get his hand around his own cock before he loses his mind but he looks down and sees light. Dean is pushing up into his hand so hard his hips are lifting clear off the bed, letting the vague blue light from the window silhouette his body in the darkened room.

Sam wraps his his fingers around his cock and pulls twice and then for a reason he can't fathom, because if anything is going to wake Dean it's this, he lets go of himself and pushes his hand into the gap between the bed and Dean. Instantly he find's Dean's dick, so hard and wet, gliding in a pool of his pre come, bunching the sheet at the tip. Sam moans as he runs the flat of his hand into the space. He feels the slick fabric on his knuckles . Dean's slick, hard-on run over his palm. Suddenly, Dean calls out from the change in pressure and temperature and friction. He pushes back so ferociously that Sam's hand slides forward and down, sinking his finger into Dean up to the second knuckle.

Sam almost cries out louder than Dean. They both freeze, not even daring to breathe.

Dean's head turns, dragging against the pillow, wide eyed, sweaty bangs flicking across his damp forehead. His green eyes penetrate into Sam's. Seem to suck all the oxygen from his lungs. He can't move. Every muscle seemed to lose connection to his brain and as much as he wills himself to move. But he just lies there, feeling the emptiness in the pit of his stomach and Dean's muscles contacting around his finger.  
He desperately tries to speak, tries to think of something to say. But there's nothing

________________________

 

Dean couldn't be sure exactly when the dream had passed and this other thing had taken over. He hadn't been awake exactly, more just aware of something that couldn't possibly be happening. Sam so close. Sam touching him. Sam moaning next to him. It wasn't real. It wasn't reality, so he couldn't be awake.

No. But he sure as hell is awake now.

Sam's fingers pushing under him, sliding across his hip and wrapping around his dick was almost too much. But Sam's finger popping into him. That was very real. He thought it was painful but this was a whole new sensation. When he turned to look at Sam he wasn't sure what would happen. If Sam would flee or fight or breakdown but he just led there, sweat beading on his face and his chest, his breath shallow and panting, panic dancing in his eyes.

Dean finally took a breath. He closed his eyes and let his tongue wet his bottom lip. "Oh god, Sammy," Then he slowly pushed back, impaling himself up onto Sam's finger, sliding as far as he could go until the rest of Sam's hand was bunched up against his ass, rasping out, "Oh, god, please!"  
And that was it.

Sam suddenly animates. He pulls himself towards Dean, smothering him, moving up and over him as Dean pulses forward into Sam's hand and then back onto his finger, practically screaming with each movement. Sam hooks his leg over Dean's and presses his cock into his hip, letting Dean's movement rock against him and force the guttural groans out of him. He crowds over Dean, pressing his face into the back of his neck, his sweat-slick chest down onto his shoulder blades. Dean can feel the heat of his breath and the damp, soft hair fall onto his cheek, enveloping, covering, sliding against him, blotting out the heavens and he comes so hard, he's barely aware of Sam coming moments later, pumping hard into his side, suddenly wet between them.

And they lie there, neither daring to move or speak or break the spell, until Dean's drifting away again, exhaustion overtaking him, the pressure on his shoulders still Sam but he doesn't seem to weigh anything. And like this, they feel complete.


End file.
